


A Very Important Date (#2 - Harry)

by LelithSugar



Series: Follow the White Rabbit [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: #hoppyhartwin, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blow Jobs, Costumes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Romance, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, bunnyboy!egg, hartwin bunny week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 15:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18502237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: It’s not specifically because it’s his birthday that Harry makes his way toJessica's,the bunny bar. He tends to treat himself on alternate weekends and his birthday falls on the right Friday by pure chance.He also happens to be utterly besotted with one of the staff.





	A Very Important Date (#2 - Harry)

**Author's Note:**

> Part two! Goodness only knows why I decided to do it like this and yes there is a third installment coming. I think. Hope you're enjoying Hartwin Bunny Week (#hoppyhartwin) on Twitter. Come join in!

A Very Important Date

 

It’s not specifically because it’s his birthday that Harry makes his way to the bunny bar. He tends to treat himself on alternate weekends and his birthday falls on the right Friday by pure chance.

_ Jessica’s _  - the surname  _ Rabbit _  conspicuously always omitted presumably for intellectual copyright reasons- is named for its proprietor: a statuesque woman with a sweep of bright copper hair and a number of considerable cosmetic enhancements who roams her domain in sequinned floor length dresses split to the thigh. Her domain itself is a traditionally styled cabaret lounge, softly furnished and orange lit, with a couple of notorious back- and side-staged private booths, the goings on in which remained left entirely to the imagination unless one was to except one of the performers’ doubtless pricey invites… Harry gathers from when they’d used to try with him that it’s ordinarily gentlemen’s club kind of stuff. Nothing illegal. You might see a nipple if you had enough cash on you, perhaps even be encouraged to consume part of your cocktail from some part of someone’s anatomy.

There’s a varied stock of resident and guest performers, a proper mix of acts and talents, but more of interest to the majority of the footfall are the club’s ‘bunnies’: the staff are invariably gorgeous to the last, auditioned rather than interviewed, and dressed worryingly close to traditional playboy fashion, with cuffs and tails and rabbit ears topping off their skimpy orange outfits.

It’s quite the gimmick, and kitschy  enough to appeal to a nice mix of ages, genders and orientations but utterly rule out homophobes, so Harry has always found he’s able to relax.

That, and he’s entirely, stupidly besotted with one of the staff.

His name is Eggsy. Harry had tried in vain for an entire week to work out whether it was some reference that he’d missed… some new slang that implied something filthy and beautiful, but drew a blank. It could have been some round the houses reference to the Easter bunny, he supposed, but it seems rude to ask, particularly now that Harry has been enjoying his professional attention for months on end.

Attention, in this context, meaning having his drinks and nibbles brought to his table and dipped into place with a dazzling grin; that wriggle that makes Eggsy’s sometimes bare collarbones shine in the lamp light; means Eggsy circles back to Harry’s usual spot to chat with him whenever he isn’t actively serving someone else, flirting easily and sweetly, the little comments it would be so easy for wishful thinking to read into; kisses blown across the room and unlimited opportunities to watch him beautifully dressed and enjoying his work.

The bunnies themselves choose from two uniforms and a few variants: blazer and short shorts or corset and knickers, and neither are gender specific. Some seem to wear one exclusively; some bunnies alternate and Harry has had the pleasure of seeing Eggsy in both.

With the corset, he tends to wear full fishnets that disappear all the way up under neat little silk pants, and with the blazer semi-sheer stockings with thick keyhole tops held up by suspender straps. Neither are something Harry’d been aware of being especially fond of men in, but that’s shifted drastically in the last few months.

Harry had first found himself at Jessica’s for a colleague’s stag party, and then someone else’s  birthday and then he’d started coming alone, about the same time he realised he had no shame whatsoever being fleeced out of absurd amounts of money for wholesale spirits and the chance to be treated like minor royalty. It’s reliable enough that he can bring friends and they marvel at quite the level of attention he receives even before he’s got his wallet out, Eggsy laying on that cheeky charm with a trowel.

_ “You do get the VIP treatment though.” _

_ “That’s his job. Very much like it’s his job to make us fall pathetically in love with him, and he’s very good at it.” _

It’s sad, but it’s harmless, and Harry didn’t really feel like bringing friends along to celebrate this birthday: his treat to himself is to enjoy his special treatment without shame.  

On his way through to the main room, he pops a note into the jar on the bar because he remembers Eggsy saying working the bar shift was a dud, that it afforded far less tipping opportunities and everybody hated it. One night Eggsy had ended up doing it, Harry had ended up sitting by the bar to keep him company for a good few hours, spending far too much money and drinking far too much in general but what he remembers of that night he remembers fondly. It was how he got to know Eggsy beyond a name and a smile. He’d made rather a fool of himself actually, been too easily swayed when Eggsy had slipped him free drinks purely because of th gesture,  and remembers very little after that other than flashes of being dropped home in a taxi he didn’t hail, clutching hangover remedies he was too out of practice to have bought himself.

He’d sent Eggsy flowers to the dressing room with a note of thanks, and so had begun this strangely old fashioned epistolary romance…

It’s nothing major. Just the odd little gift. There’s every chance in the world they get stuck straight on eBay, or in the bin, but his spectacles have too strong a rose filter applied when it comes to Eggsy to imagine him laughing at him. He does his level best never to be creepy - no personal comments, no questions, nothing beyond a ‘best wishes’ or  _ at most _  a ‘saw  this and thought of you’ . And they’re mostly expensive treats: nice booze, fancy sweets, flowers to brighten the dressing room and show his appreciation in the old school way since Eggsy had let on that there was a bit of informal competition going on backstage and some of the girls were absolutely  _ gagging  _ that he was the one being sent roses.

And it’s not entirely one sided, at least in the sense that Harry does get some preferential treatment for his sponsorship that seems neither intended to solicit more nor to be through any official policies. There was a card waiting for him at Christmas, the inside of the envelope scattered with red glitter hearts that had been a devil to get out of the carpet - he still occasionally finds one in a fold of the curtains or the corner join of the desk - and vouchers off his cocktail bill. He has a set of glossy prints   A couple of which definitely do not appear on the bar’s social media and have a very special place in Harry’s nightstand. He’s not sure if that feels more or less guilty in light of the quip Eggsy had made about having the best one laminated but It’s framed anyway, so he needn’t worry. Not that he’s ever going to know that.

Tonight he’s in the masculine attire, which is probably Harry’s favourite, though he accepts whatever Eggsy is wearing on any given day would be his favourite. Still, it does look wonderful on him, the tails of his rib-length orange tuxedo jacket split perfectly around the fluffy tail attached to his underwear… sewn, or pinned? Why on earth should that matter? Is Harry  _ really _  at the point of trying to provide himself with an excuse for staring?

And pleasingly he makes a beeline for Harry as soon as he spots him, calling or to him as though he’s been waiting all night

“Here he is! No party?” Ah, of course, but his membership would have given him away. “Best come with me then. Birthday boys get a private booth if they come alone. I don’t make the rules.”

The immediate question isn’t worth asking because there’s no chance Harry won’t follow wherever Eggsy’s leading him, though there are only a couple of options in practice. 

Harry’s never been into the rooms off to the side of the stage. Well, Once at the beginning he’d been lead into one by a charming brunette bunny who’d taken about as long to realise she was barking up the wrong tree as Harry’d taken to work out what was happening, and they’d had a laugh about it and he’d tipped her sweetly. She still gives him a heartstopping smile and a wave now, another reason for punters who aren’t up to speed with how it all works to eye him with jealousy.

But it’s a surprise how much quieter the hubbub is from here, and he’s not had enough to drink not to spend a moment’s thought on their security policies, and sincerely hope the bunnies are careful who they bring back here. With the door shut, more or less anything could happen. And isn’t that a beautiful dream?

Eggsy stays close, guiding harry back towards a comfortable looking bench seat. His heart pounds madly inside his chest, in his ears; all the liquid that should be in his mouth seems to have diverted to soak the palms of his hands instead. The instinct is to run, as though he’s facing some mortal fear rather than a bit of embarrassment, as though Eggsy’s going to suddenly break out some dental equipment or lock him in a cupboard full of spiders.

“What-“ Harry swallows down his urge to bolt because there’s nothing about to happen that he doesn’t want, it’s just he uncertainty that’s killing him. Eggsy’s close enough to smell warm and surprisingly heady, like… exactly like the  _ Black Jasmine _  Harry had left, thinking it would suit him.  “What happens now?”

It’s a delicious kind of anxiety that settles around Harry’s spine as Eggsy holds his eye contact with a hand still on Harry’s bicep.

“You’re supposed to offer me a drink,” Eggsy begins and harry nods eagerly, completely and utterly unwilling to put up any sort of fight, “And I’m supposed to ask for champagne because it makes us look classy and just happens to be the most expensive thing we sell, and Jess knows ain’t nobody going to say no to me if I tell you I’m thirsty and that’s what I really want…” Harry bets that’s the truth, and would rather not know what a bottle of champagne at club prices will set him back: he’ll just hand his card over. Eggsy licks his bottom lip whilst looking briefly at Harry’s tie.

“But I  _ am _  thirsty and you don’t drink wine.So I’ll get you your usual?” Harry nods, is still nodding gormlessly like a car ornament, he has no idea what’s going on. “And I’m gonna put a Jack and Coke on your tab for me and be back in a couple of minutes.”

Harry takes Eggsy’s immediate absence to compose himself. He’s a grown man, not a year twelve waiting to ask a date to a ball, and  Eggsy hasn’t slipped into the predatory character he sees on some of the other bunnies when they lure a mark into privacy, so he hopes that whatever is coming will simply be an extension of their usual flirtation. Why not indeed? It is his birthday.

And the self pep talk is simple: Keep it to yourself, sit on your hands if need be, absolutely do not think about Eggsy sitting on your hands, do not ruin whatever this is by being humiliated when you inevitably get an erection because that’s sort of the point. It’s not as though the lad doesn’t know Harry’s drooling over him.

Eggsy reappears with a tray holding their drinks, which he dips onto the table, before shutting the door and turning the lock.

“There we go. It’s just me and you.”

Harry has the briefest moment to wonder at the warm sparkle of the smile Eggsy treats him to then - bright and… earnest? - before Eggsy is straddling him.

They almost square against each other then, breathing each other’s air, parallel to a kiss and somehow Harry has the immediate and distinct impression that this is now what usually happens. Eggsy almost-kisses just to the side of Harry’s mouth and along, and _  dear god above  _ that feels remarkably like fingers under his tie, fidgeting to undo his buttons.

“Are you… allowed to do this?”

“Depends what you think I’m doing.”   There, he has Harry stumped. And he’s too protective of his poor old heart to let it believe this could be anything other than a sales pitch. One he is absolutely buying, make no mistake, but nonetheless  it’s a very valid question, and  _ sitting on someone’s lap With Intent  _  seems as reasonable a place to start as any.  “We ain’t allowed to sell anything  _ too _  full on, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, no, of course.” It’s a relief, really. He has no idea why and perhaps it means he’ll never get what he really wants… but perhaps it means he just might.

“Private dances, naughty chatting over cocktails, but of leeway on that no touching rule … those sorts of things are what’s on the menu for the right amount of money, you know?” Harry’s money has obviously been good enough for a great deal of leeway, considering the current bodily contact, and he’s not sure what constitutes  _naughty_  but the innuendo he’s had for free is certainly worth expanding on. “But put that wallet away and sit on it. I ain’t want you paying for another fuckin’ thing.”

Aha. So he’s right: It’s either time for a telling off, or…

“So why am I here?”

“Cos I’m taking a gamble that you won’t grass me up.”

And then there’s lips on Harry’s, a tongue teasing gently at entering his mouth when he’s not even aware he’d opened it, not aware in the slightest of what’s just happened except now Eggsy is kissing him like one of their lives depends on it… like that might even be  _ his. _

Eggsy breathes deep and  kisses him again, deep and hungry and the pieces fall into the shape of a picture Harry can scarce allow himself to imagine. Because it sounds a little bit like Eggsy is saying he’s been wanting to do this of his own accord and that’s… well, Harry’s blown out a lot of fucking birthday candles by his age but surely no count warrants a wish coming true quite like that.

But Eggsy is hard from kissing him; that much is becoming abundantly obvious in his minimal silk pants and Harry can’t resist giving him more of what he’s enjoying, levelling the tables just a little by holding the back of Eggsy’s head whilst they kiss, pressing with hands and tongue and - “Mind the ears!” -  _ oh _ . Harry’s excitement is liquid-hot suddenly, throbbing through him  because he remembers that he is not just kissing - exciting enough, when he left home dateless and with not the vaguest inclination as to where his next dalliance might be coming from - but kissing  _ Eggsy,  _ the leading man of his every grubby daydream. And whatever the scenario he’s not faking that arousal.

Harry wonders whether he likes to be teased, whether it’s for both of them that he meanders down Eggsy’s chest, kissing and nibbling and sucking and deliberately avoiding the nipple Eggsy gives him by unbuttoning his jacket - tight and pink and perfect though it is.

Alright, so perhaps not for long, and Harry’s barely succumbed to take it into his mouth when Eggsy is groaning, squirming around, leaning back and baring his cock in obvious invitation -  _ here next _  - with a handful of damp black satin yanked down below his balls.

It’s easier for Harry to get properly on his knees… easier and he likes it, if he’s honest: if he’s going to take a surreal stolen opportunity to give oral sex to the boy he’s been dreaming about for months he’s going to do it right and that means kneeling in front of the table Eggsy’s perched on, hands splayed on his stockinged thighs whilst he gets stuck in.

He licks slowly up the fat vein underneath with just the very point of his tongue, slowly until Eggsy whimpers at the tease and that’s as good as begging Harry to take it in, to suck him properly.  So he doesn’t make him wait, he follows the taste and the twitches of Eggsy’s thighs until the head of Eggsy’s cock is nudged right up against the back of his throat and  _ goodness, well, shit,  _ there’s still a good inch or so before he’ll be flush against his pubis but Harry is not easily deterred. He takes a deep breath through his nose, concentrates on the fuzz of nylon under his palms… and that’s been longer than he’s bothered about remembering… and relaxes his throat.

From there it’s a blur. Eggsy thick and hot and snug in his throat; hands in his hair - and an apology Harry doesn’t want for that because Eggsy’s enjoying himself, enjoying Harry’s mouth, so fucking beautifully that he gets swept up in it, working and working Eggsy’s cock to pull those moans and murmurs out of him and not giving a damn if anyone outside can hear. It’s over too soon to care: the whine that he’s there, yes, already, is the sweetest music Harry’s heard in years and then Eggsy’s orgasm is a hard pulse, hot on the back of his tongue.

He’s swallowed it before he’s even thought about it really, the hot douse of satisfaction the first and last thing he needs when he himself is way overexcited, aching hard, instincts based somewhere at the bottom of his back begging him to find something soft and wet,  _ now. _   Harry blinks himself back to rational humanity as best he can, but it’s not easy with the view of Eggsy sex flushed, half in his costume; breathless and softening.

Eggsy tries to kiss him then - sweet, filthy thing - and it’s heaven until he reaches for Harry’s fly and he has to stop him lest Harry embarrass himself at the first brush of his hand, which is a very real possibility. He gets the message with minimal protest, at least, when Harry warns him away.

“Wouldn’t wanna waste it.” Can grown men swoon? Harry supposes they’re as wont as anyone and Eggsy’s coy smile of invitation would be just cause. “What can I do for you, Birthday Boy?”

With god only knows what, really, on offer it’s up there with the hardest decisions Harry’s ever had to make but what it boils down to is this: when he returns to his home, by himself,  to live out his fantasies only with Eggsy’s pictures and this memory, what will he not be able to forgive himself if he doesn’t ask for?

“This is going to sound ridiculous.”

“Try me mate, I’ve heard some shit.” And well really, Harry doesn’t doubt it, so here goes.

“In all the time I’ve been admiring you, I’ve never seen your back. It’s become something of a fixation.” And that’s something of a euphemism, and he doesn’t doubt Eggsy knows it, and his expressions and the tilt of his head urge Harry to carefully free his prick from his trousers. “Would you show me? Would you let me…” and Eggsy doesn’t make him finish. That smile morphs into the smuggest, most beautiful grin and Eggsy turns his back.

First he drops one shoulder off his jacket, showing the cusp of his deltoid and giving Harry a wink and a cheeky wriggle… and then he makes short work of it, pulling his arms free and slinging the whole thing off.

He’s beautiful. It’s no revelation but it’s still dazzling. His shoulders look about twice the breadth of his waist and they’re set with neat, thick muscle… but Harry’s seen that in his corset. What he hasn’t seen is the narrowing of his ribs down to his waist, the parallel divots in the small of his back scattered with beauty spots just like the ones on his arms and his throat.  Eggsy grins at him, bends forward and just twitches at the hips to wag his little bunny tail almost under Harry’s face.

Harry loses it then. Eggsy’s posed perfectly, looking ahead so doesn’t see him spit in his palm, doesn’t watch the frantic slip of Harry’s fist over the head of his cock that frees the fiery pleasure that’s been gathering in his core. When climax approaches it finds him desperate to let it spill and suddenly seized with the need to get it on all those little freckles there, like a debauched dot to dot; to mark him and mess him up and make him Harry’s, just for now, so he leans a hand on Eggsy’s back just to keep him still whilst he rides out the orgasm that buckles his knees and curls his toes.

He returns to reality just as fast, breathing heavily in staticky silence, his come painting those beauty marks he wonders how many have seen. In his daze it’s nothing but amusing when Eggsy demands to be wiped clean - but of course - and fusses his uniform back into place.

His ears are slightly skew-wiff. They appear to be poseable, but Harry honestly doesn’t have the strength or the presence of mind to try.

Eggsy finds what must be a couple of hundred pounds’ worth of notes somewhere about his person and tucks them into his stocking top.

“If anyone asks, I gave you a lap dance, yeah?” Does he even dance? It’s never occurred to Harry to ask and it’s not as though he wasn’t going to offer recompense for Eggsy’s time, birthday or no birthday, but apparently he’s having none of it, the kind soul.

With a kiss on the cheek that feels… different, somehow, final, Eggsy makes a pointed comment about  not hanging around outside and being a stalker, and Harry accepts that as instruction to go about the rest of his evening and go home: not take a moment of this to heart. Which is exactly what he was expecting; planning, but whilst it’s still smarting Eggsy follows it with  “So wait for me in the kebab shop.”

_ Sorry? _

“I normally get some food on the way home anyway. And… yeah. If you want.”

 

 

X

 

The reality of the morning after the night before with Eggsy Is nothing like Harry had never imagined.

On his pillow,  there is a smudge of mascara that had remained stubborn and spiky after Eggsy’s shower but has yielded to the gentle coaxing of the cotton in sleep. There are stockings over the end of his bedstead, because they’d been late leaving and the bar was being locked up around them so Eggsy had kept on the bottom half of his outfit, blazer left on a hanger.

Another time, when Harry is less exhausted and confused, he will take the time to have some very definite feelings about Eggsy standing broad and masculine, t-shirt and joggers thrown over corsetry and tights, cap casting shade across the last traces of make up; about sharing a cab home knowing what his ordinary clothing hid underneath and furthermore what treasures were concealed by the racy underwear.

Eggsy hadn’t expected a second round out of him then, thank goodness, hadn’t wanted anything more than a few lingering, promising, slightly tipsy kisses, a shower and to collapse face first into the comfort of Harry’s bed where he still sleeps, sprawled and snoring like he owns the place. What happens when he awakes… well, that’s another unknown factor, but - Eggsy murmurs, scrubs his face into the pillow and flings the sheet off to reveal more of his body than Harry has yet seen in one sitting - but he gathers he’s about to find out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback always enjoyed and appreciated - your lovely comments brighten my commutes and keep me writing. Much love.


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